The Oedipus Manuscripts
by GreyEyedDetective
Summary: A well to do lady hires Sherlock Holmes to find her estranged younger sister... and he discovers a trail of scandal, intrigue, and murder in the family as he seeks the woman who is right under his nose...
1. Poison

**The Oedipus Manuscripts**

Chapter One—Poison

_December 31, 1889_

It must be said that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was rarely off a case, even during the holiday season, having just finished the singularly amusing case of "The Blue Carbuncle," as Watson would later dub it, four days prior.

The man in question was standing uncomfortably outside the tall, sweeping marble archway of the Angelus Estate Mansion, waiting in the line of people who would enter for tonight's ball. His long, skeletal-thin, yellow fingers gripped a cigarette tightly as he puffed away on it in such a nervous manor that the woman beside him could not help but feel a tinge of pity for the fellow.

"Mr. Holmes, you need not be so tentative about this evening. I am sure it will go marvellously smooth and uneventful. "Right, John?" the blonde woman nudged her husband, who was staring vacantly at the beautiful twin ice sculptures that adorned the entrance to the Angelus Estate.

"Hmm?" he turned to face her. "O, yes Mary, I am sure it will be perfectly wonderful," Dr. Watson recovered, looking abashed at the wanderings of his mind.

"That is what I am afraid of," admitted Holmes wryly. Watson cleared his throat loudly to keep from laughing at his companion.

"I am sure there will be something for you to get yourself into, old chap," assured the older gentleman.

Holmes nodded slightly, his mind quickly forgetting his discomfort in the prospect of his latest case. He had not bothered to tell Dr. Watson about it, for he had no doubt in his mind that the missing daughter of Lord Emeraldé would return to her late father's home when her acting friends ran out of money.

The honey blonde Mary Morrison Watson pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "I certainly hope that nothing of the kind will keep you from entertaining the friends I want to introduce you to tonight," she said with a low amorous voice. Dr. Watson wrapped an arm affectionately around his wife.

Holmes shrugged in defeat. Helpless romantics, the pair, he thought. The line had advanced as far as to place Dr. and Mrs. Watson as well as Mr. Holmes in the front of the queue, and just inside the blue marble hallway.

"Name?" inquired the laconic dry voice of the man holding the guest book.

"Dr. and Mrs. John Watson," declared Watson.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," interjected the other impatiently.

The man was a bit surprised, and raised his eyes from the book for the first time all evening. "Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes! It is truly a pleasure to finally meet people of such _célèbre_," he said, his smooth French slipping through his bitter English.

"_Île de City, mais pas Paris_," commented Holmes on the origin of the accent, his French as dry as the gentleman's English as he gestured for John and Mary to enter the main hall of the dance.

His offhand and relaxed countenance completely changed as he sprang into action and thrust a miniature portrait under the bridge of his nose. "Have you seen this woman tonight?" he asked firmly. The man shook his head "no" and lamented that he could not recall faces of the guests. Holmes gave a portentous sniff of disgust at the man's incompetence, and then followed Dr. and Mrs. Watson into the hall.

The Angelus Estate was a vast domain of woods and gardens just south of Guildford, Surrey. Baron and Baroness Ashterhead, as inherited owners of the estate, were obliged to throw the famous Angelus New Year's Ball on the last day of December. The hall itself, having been designated the location of the event for over fifty years, was a marvellous place of terrific proportions. Already it was filled with ladies in silk evening gowns and men in silk hats. Watson and Mary were embroiled in babbling away with two couples that seemed as stiff as the detective. But surely none in the room were more uncomfortable.

Holmes found himself inexplicably attracted to a bare grey wall; fingers, _moins_ the cigarette, were drumming impatiently on the lustre finish of the miniature in his trouser pocket.

"Holmes?" said Watson, turning to find his friend noticeably absent. "Really Holmes, you must at least _pretend_ to look interested," chided the good doctor.

Mary, in a rose taffeta, swept between them. "Mr. Holmes, I have two ladies that I wish you to meet." Holmes groaned privately, but his face failed to show any trace of emotion.

"Certainly, Mrs. Watson," nodded the detective, shooting a pleading look at Dr. Watson that Mary could not help but catch.

Mary guided him towards two Mademoiselles that had already drawn a small crowd if infatuated gentlemen. The first was a tall, willowy woman in a forest green velvet gown. Her hair was ebony black in limp curls and her eyes of cat green gave the impression of an energetic feline. The second female in a silk gown of cranberry was clearly not from Britannica, but rather India. Her complexion was dark; her doe eyes were copper brown.

"Mr. Holmes, may I introduce Miss Emma Galveston," Mary said of the former, "and Miss Kathryn Robinson," of the latter. Holmes was rather intrigued by the mysterious Miss Robinson, an Indian with a very English name and mannerisms.

"Good evening Mr. Holmes," chimed the women, reminiscent of schoolgirls greeting the headmaster. Miss Galveston looked quite bored immediately, now that the attention was not on her personage, but Miss Robinson looked eager to pursue a conversation with the famed detective of London.

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, I have been so pleasured to read some of the accounts of your most daring sleuthing skills," praised Miss Robinson with a smile.

"Indeed? I—" began Holmes stiffly when he was interrupted.

"—I found them dry, fabricated, and overly romanticised," scorned Miss Galveston quietly. There were murmurs of agreement and approval from the empty headed gentlemen that surrounded the cat eyed woman like a barrier of admiration.

Watson was silent, turning an exploring eye towards his companion. "As I was about to say to Miss Robinson, Miss Galveston, I found the works to be an overly dramatic interpretation of the simple, precise facts that I interpret every day."

"Interpret? Is that just a polite way of saying _guess_?" challenged Miss Galveston haughtily.

"Oh, no Miss Galveston. By _interpreting_ the facts I construe clues and logical facts into a series of rational events. Logic is _never_ guesswork, Miss Galveston," retorted Holmes smugly, in the way that only he could.

The woman stiffened, knowing that she had been defeated. Was the room getting larger and more hostile? Her green eyes shifted back and forth nervously like a pendulum, looking for a means of escape from the intolerable smug stare of the grey eyed detective.

She turned to her auburn haired male companion and asked quite loudly for him to bring them, meaning Miss Robinson and herself, some punch. Holmes, sensing her backing away from the argument, cast a sly smile at the good doctor, who reflected the same. It was a matter of pride- logic _was not_ guesswork. Holmes spoke quietly in the ear of his companion as he made his way around the ring of couples: "The sharp tongue of a female is just as ruinous, if not deadly, as the poison of a cobra."

Watson, having no time to reply, only could watch his friend slip away into the crowd as the red headed fellow returned with the ladies' drinks. Miss Robinson too noted the direction of his disappearance; she drained the red liquid from the glass and followed Sherlock.

* * *

"Miss Robinson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Holmes, curious.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I just followed you to escape from those insufferable people. They make me positively miserable and Emma… I mean, Miss Galveston, insists that I come an 'be sociable' with them."

"Them?"

"Actors," scowled the pretty Indian woman. "Dirt, the lot of them, if you will forgive me for saying so," corrected Miss Robinson, afraid that he would be offended.

"An honest mind. Not the usual sort of thing one finds in a woman, if you do not mind me saying. No, I am glad that I am not the only one who gets that impression from those… eh, gentlemen. You say that they are actors?" said Holmes abruptly, his mind suddenly reeling with certain possibilities.

"Yes, they are all high class actors. Shakespeare, so they say. But such filth as they does not disserve to speak the words of such a well versed playwright."

Holmes could not help laughing aloud at her naivety. "Is there something amusing, Mr. Holmes?" questioned Miss Robinson bitterly.

He straightened and mumbled an apology. "I am sorry, Miss Robinson. In my line of work I have come across many such characters in that line. In truth, I was once a Shakespearian actor myself."

Her mouth flew open in shock, and her slender brown hands flew to it. "Oh no, oh my! I am ever so sorry Mr. Holmes. It never crossed my mind that you would be an actor."

"Hamlet, in my youth. My troupe performed in America. But those days have come and passed, Miss Robinson. Miss Robinson?" he inquired, taking note of the greenish pallor that swept her dark face.

Her eyes felt welded open by some terrible burning force. Bursts of bright light and tightness of lung sent her spinning. She took off in an unladylike run, heading for the next room as purple waves of nausea hit her from all sides. And all at once her hands were to her throat as it sealed shut, clamped like a vice. The world went a horrid shade of black…

Holmes, who had been following her as quickly as inconspicuous etiquette would allow him, discovered the Indian woman face down on the cold marble floor. With a cry of shock he dropped to his knees and flipped her over; her red skirt twisted by this movement like a rosebud around her legs. The large brown doe eyes were not closed- rather they were glassy and half open, like a doll. His long, yellowed fingers moved to her neck, feeling for a pulse. He retracted them with a sigh of defeat.

Holmes' cry attracted the good doctor, as well as a few of the actor-gentlemen from Miss Galveston's circle dashed into the small parlour in which he occupied.

"Holmes? What the devil is the matter?" asked Watson, half worried, half cross. Mr. Holmes stood up slowly, his limbs feeling heavy with the weight of this new burden on his shoulders. "Oh, please do not tell me that—" tried Watson, but his voice caught in his throat.

The men had long since by now seen the prostrate woman on the floor and they were making dashes for "brandy, water, and smelling salts."

"It will be of no use to her," said Holmes in a hoarse voice. They stared expectantly at him. "Miss Kathryn Robinson is dead." There were collective murmurs of horror from the gathering crowd of part attendees.

"Holmes!" shouted Dr. Watson, struggling to push through the dumbfounded mob. "Is she really… dead?" he asked mournfully, finding no more delicate way to put it.

"Very much so, Watson. It is an alarming development indeed."

"Development?" asked Watson. Before Holmes could answer, a female shriek pierced the heavy air, like the call of a banshee.

Miss Galveston stood in the doorway, hands to her bare neck in her shock. Her white face had taken on a grey-green pallor; her eyes alight with fear. "Someone catch her!" barked Holmes brusquely as the woman swooned.

No, he thought. This is all wrong! They would never be targeting an Indian woman; she does not fit the profile! Unless… he considered Kathryn Robinson's untimely death: frightened eyes, greened face… hands clutching her throat…

"Watson! Quickly! She has been poisoned," shouted Holmes as he tore across the room to the beige parlour sofa that held the unconscious Miss Galveston. Watson followed suit, standing at the shoulder of his now crouching friend. "She?"

Unceremoniously, Holmes drew a needle and vial from his suit pocket. In his ever constant terror of being poisoned, Holmes carried a medley of antidotes to common poisons.

"Holmes, certainly you do not intend to—"

"Save her? There is no time for ethics when a woman's life is at stake," scolded Holmes. "Now stop clucking like a peahen and help me!"

Still, the good doctor had his doubts. "Poison? Really Holmes, we—" He stopped. Sherlock pressed the plunger into her neck like an expert, and then began frantically massaging the soft tissue to circulate the medicine. The room waited, dead silent. The ballroom played a delicious waltz as midnight approached.

Watson felt his palms beginning to perspire as he searched for a pulse on her limp wrist. He sighed, and stood up. The doctor spotted the Baron Ashterhead in the corner of his eye. "Good news, doctor?" inquired the heavily bearded lord of Angelus Estate.

Watson cleared his throat. Such a crowd in so small a room! he thought. He noted that all had stayed clear of Miss Robinson's body. "She… survived," he whispered loudly, finding no more voice. "She would have died if it was not for the actions of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he admitted.

Congratulatory whispers were thrown at the detective as the baron indicated that they should return to the dance until the police arrived. The Baron had one more thing to say: "Excellent work, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. I shall strive to keep this incident under lock and key. For the reputation of the estate, of course."

"But—" began Watson, but stopped when he felt Mary give a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. He let the baron leave, secretly seething. The death of a young lady would remain a secret from the unsuspecting attendees, just because she was an Indian!

"An unusual poison. Administered in their drinks. I would wager that it was some sort of respiratory toxin; it triggered the swelling of their throats and lungs. Observe," he commented softly, forcing open the jaw of the dead woman. The inside of her mouth was black and purple; soft tissues swollen to such an extreme that her throat was no longer visible. John tried to shift Mary away from the gruesome sight, but she refused, wishing to know more about the odd poison.

"Should we stop everyone from drinking?" she asked quickly, wishing to prevent another occurrence.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Watson. It was the glass itself that was doctored. We have ourselves a very clever criminal, Watson. In order to throw suspicion off himself, he poisoned our guest from India. Then no one would be able to tell who his real target was."

"But why would anyone want to murder Miss Galveston?" asked Mary, still finding it hard to believe that anyone would want to target a lively, beautiful girl.

"Besides the fact that she belittles all men she comes in contact with? I have my suspicions, but the true answer must come from her own lips."

"Why tonight?" asked Dr. Watson.

"Plenty of witnesses to prove innocence, to start with; not an amateur killer, but an amateur with poisons…"

"How so Holmes?"

"He expected Miss Emma to die first."

"When Miss Kathryn gulped down her punch, she was exposed to the poison faster!" realized Watson.

"Precisely Watson. And this was her downfall. Had Emma collapsed first, it would have been Kathryn that I saved tonight."

* * *

_January 3, 1890_

It was Thursday afternoon, around four o' clock, when a slender hooded figure stepped out of a black hansom carriage and knocked on the door of 221-B Baker Street. The black haired female brushed a few curls back into the tight bun and smiled at the landlady. "Is Mr. Holmes in?" inquired the woman.

"Yes, he has just returned from Scotland Yard. May I tell him a name?" she said, long used to the peculiar desire of anonymousness that Holmes' clients bore.

"Why yes. Tell him that Emma Galveston is calling."

A spark of recollection shone in the older woman's eyes. "Galveston… the young woman from the New Year's Eve murder? Oh, I am so glad to see that you are well, Miss Galveston."

The younger woman laughed hollowly. "I am getting that from quite a few people, due to the _Times_, Mrs… eh…"

"Mrs. Hudson," said the benevolent lady, showing Emma inside.

"Mr. Holmes, a Miss Emma Galveston to see you," whispered Mrs. Hudson, peering into the room that had once been her husband's private study.

"Excellent!" shouted Holmes, rising to his feet to greet the girl, who suddenly found herself a little timid. "I have been waiting for days now for news on your health. There were no negative repercussions?" Holmes asked anxiously, like a boy eager to see his mother's appreciation of some humble handcrafted prize. In truth, he had had no time to test the drug, and was almost fretful over any negative effects.

"None at all, Mr. Holmes," said Emma stiffly, feeling rather uncomfortable in the messy room. She too a hesitant step towards a chair and nearly tripped over a pile of fibre that must have at one point resembled a pair of slippers. "My, what a… unique place, Mr. Holmes…" she tried.

"I find it useful to keep records of all my work, Miss Galveston," Holmes said stiffly, feeling that she was insulting his "filing system."

"Really?" she looked up from picking at a thread at her dress. "What sort of cases?"

"I thought they were, to quote… 'dry, fabricated, and overly romanticised'?"

Holmes smiled, taking pleasure in watching the sharp tongued woman squirm at the sound of her own words. The lady in the black dress retreated into a leather armchair, seeking consolation before she could speak again.

She blushed furiously and spoke truthfully, "Dr. Watson's stories were vague and idealistic, making you out to be some sort of white knight— oh, I have done it again, have I not, Mr. Holmes?" she said, blushing again.

"Don't worry Miss Galveston. I'm no white knight."

**Authoress' Note:**

**I would like to make credit at this time to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the canon works. In particular, his _The Case of the Blue Carbuncle_ is mentioned in this piece. I do not own this work or any of the canon characters found in this piece.**

**_The Oedipus Manuscripts_ is a story, written by GreyEyedDetective, for the purpose of fanfiction entertainment. Constructive criticism and positive reviewing is encouraged.**


	2. The Train

**The Oedipus Manuscripts**

Chapter Two— The Train

_January 11, 1890_

The train from London to Essex was running a bit slow, Mr. Sherlock Holmes noted as he boarded the five a.m. at King's Cross. It was nearly deserted, as most trains are at this hour of the morning, yet he chose a seat across the aisle to a young woman clutching a carpetbag. It was a rather muddy item, and moderately old, but it bulged full of important bric-a-brac.

His naturally curious nature was slightly piqued, for he could not see her face behind a heavy black mourning veil. It took another moment of silence from the lady for him to safely assume that she was quite asleep. Perhaps she had boarded the train in Surrey. Not even the scream of the whistle and the sudden motion of the train stirred the deep sleeper. I wish I could rest that well on a train, thought Holmes lightly to himself.

The case of which he would be facing that evening was of moderate importance, although the client seemed to think that it was more urgent than it was. Clients always did think that. Holmes settled back against the velvet lined and wood framed bench, crossed his legs like he was at home, unfolded his paper, and began to read.

A motion in the corner of his eye attracted his keen attention from the morning _Times_: from the white fingers in black mitts slipped a scrap of paper. A ticket stub. He stood, bracing himself against the iron of his bench, and lifted it from the floor. He read it without thinking; satisfied, he pocketed it and returned to his paper, musing over how anyone could sleep in such a frigid, bumpy, and generally uncomfortable place like a train.

Some time had paced on his pocket watch when the still dreaming woman began to mutter incoherently in her sleep. These meaningless syllables eventually formed frantic words: "Lise! No, Lise, no!" The cries of the nightmare rose to the extent that Holmes thought it prudent to wake her.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" he said, shaking her arm and trying to think of the proper thing to say in an awkward situation.

The woman woke with an embarrassed start and brushed the cloth from her face. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Miss Galveston? What an unexpected surprise," said Holmes warmly. He was beginning to see a pattern around the strange little woman; it tied surprisingly to the other case he was working on.

Holmes had not had a real opportunity to get a good, honest look at Emma Galveston; stripped away of all the finery of the New Year's Ball, she was an entirely different looking woman indeed.

One would never go as far to say that she was homely, but there were several flaws about her looks that she covered up in keen flirting and a large fan. Her eyes were too big, giving the appearance of a china doll on a shelf, and were a green so pale that it was close to yellow. They were framed by long, dark eyelashes, but marred by red rims, either from crying or lack of sleep. Given her recent behaviour, Holmes opted for the latter.

Her high cheekbones were a rose tint, and he realized that she was blushing, given the current situation; but there was a certain waxy yellow appearance of her skin that suggested an underlying illness.

"You were in an argument last night," said Holmes softly, his words caressing the air but not lost over the rumble of the tracks. It was a smooth, sensual sound that echoed oddly in her ears. She made sense of the words long before she made sense of his tone, but when she did, she dropped her head in defeat. "That's why you fell asleep on the train- you were arguing and didn't rest."

"It is almost indecent for you to know the details in a lady's evening," she chided. Holmes' face twisted, to keep from laughing, and he smothered it with his best impression of remorse.

"You can drop the act, Miss Galveston." His tone was empathetic, but underneath laid the barest trace of commanding steel. Her face rose defiantly.

"Act?"

"You know; the one where you pretend you're a lady."

She tried a shot at looking innocent, failed, and resorted to a scowl. Knowing that pressing the matter would only earn him more hostility, he hastily switched subjects.

"So, you have friends in Chelmsford?"

"How did you-?"

"You ticket, mademoiselle," said the detective, returning the white stub from his breast pocket.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes, though I cannot really tell how you got a hold of it. Yes, I have friends in Chelmsford. I was raised there."

"Indeed?" said Holmes, although he already knew.

Her face brightened as a thought occurred to her. "You're working on a case in Chelmsford? Then perhaps I could help you! I know practically every family there… I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, am I annoying you?" she asked with her own hint of annoyance. "Because if I am, I will most assuredly stop immediately."

"No, no Miss Galveston," Holmes apologised, perhaps a bit too profusely. What sort of expression had he been giving? Holmes reproached himself for letting his mind wander from his other client. She gave him a suspicious glare. "It is just that at the moment I cannot fill you in on the more delicate details of this case without first consulting my client. If she gives me permission, perhaps I may contact you while you are still in Essex?"

"The Davidson Hotel on South Street. I'll be there until Sunday; you may inquire any time after seven o' clock," she said rather stiffly, clutching her carpet bag a little bit tighter.

"I will, Miss Galveston. I most certainly will," said Holmes distractedly. There was something familiar about this woman…

* * *

Reuben Manor of Chelmsford, Essex was an ever dwindling estate; each inheritor had the tendency to die mysteriously and suddenly, leaving numerous debts behind. The d'Emeraldé family had never been well liked in Chelmsford; rather, they were outsiders among the gentry class.

The last Lord d'Emeraldé was found apparently _accidentally_ drowned, in the bottom of the large lake on the estate. And of his father? Murdered, with a letter opener in his chest. For a short time Julian had been suspected, but his name was cleared under unreported circumstances.

Lady Roberta Flynn, the eldest daughter of the late Lord Julian d'Emeraldé, was now the heiress of Reuben Manor. She was in her late thirties, with black hair in a chignon knot and lines of worry around her yellow-green eyes. The last decaying resemblances of beauty had faded with the unexplainable disappearance of her flighty and vain younger sister, Lady Genevieve d'Emeraldé.

Holmes found himself seated in a red plush armchair in Lady Roberta's study. He fidgeted a bit under her glare and stroked the armrest. Sir Christian, her youthful blonde husband, was absent, but this was often the case. Sir Flynn ran a respectable mercantile business in London.

"How goes the search?" questioned Lady Roberta without the proper and customary offer of tea.

"I have my leads," grunted Holmes, helping himself to the silver teakettle. Finding it cold, he resisted making a face, and retreated to the armchair. It was hard to speak of such matters when one was thoroughly chilled to the bone.

Lady Roberta took the hint at last. "Shall I have Mildred fetch a fresh pot for you, Mr. Holmes?" Holmes nodded gratefully, and refused to say another word until the maid returned with the desired drink.

The clink of his teacup on the table was lost on his ears as he began to question the lady. "I know this is a delicate matter, but I must inquire on how the last daughter of the family died. She was Genevieve's twin, so you've told me."

"Analisa was… special. Different… but in a good way," she added hastily. "She was only eleven, a time when you could still act more like a young boy than a young girl. It was 1875, if I recall correct, and the old orphanage across the stone wall… Rosalyn's… was still quite full of children. Matron Rosalyn had her hands quite full, and she never quite noticed if a child went astray during the day. Jenny… that's Genevieve… and Analisa made a friend from the orphanage. Her name was Emma, and was an adventurous child just like Analisa. Inseparable, were those three. Because one twin liked Emma, the other felt obligated to like her just a much. Their mother… named Angela… I had a different mother… never really watched over the girls. There was something empty, almost sad about the third wife of my father. I practically raised them. Jenny was a docile little girl, so she acted as a lookout while the other two made mischief on the orchard, practically every day.

"It was on one of those days, in late spring, that Emma coxed Analisa onto a higher branch of an older fruit tree. It was the first day that I was home from vacation in Rome with Christian… I was twenty-two and had just gotten married… there was a terrible crack in a peach tree… she died from a broken neck. And Jenny stood there screaming…"

"Lise! No, Lise, no!" murmured Holmes. "Analisa's pet name was _Lise_, correct?"

"How did you know?" asked Lady Roberta hoarsely.

"Tell me," said Holmes, shaking off her question. "Was this Emma's name… _Galveston_?"

"You know her?" gasped the woman, rising to her feet.

"From another case. An incident on New Year's Eve… When was the last time that you saw Miss Galveston?"

"She was to marry a man in London… I think his name was Bailey. Yes, Michael Bailey, that is it. A former sailor and a barman… not much, but for a girl of her poor status, it was the best she could do. The pretty little thing looked so much like Analisa that father even offered Angela to adopt her to replace the dead twin."

"I may have to call on Mr. Bailey," said Holmes evasively, as if he hadn't heard her say that the three girls were practically identical. "But first, may, if I see Miss Galveston again, may I ask her assistance in solving the disappearance of Miss Genevieve?"

"Fine, Mr. Holmes. Just find my sister," Lady Roberta concluded emphatically, clearly distressed on how tonight's meeting had progressed.

* * *

_January 12, 1890_

It was seven twenty-five by Sherlock's pocket watch as he pushed open the ancient white wood doors of the Davidson Hotel. They place itself was three floors, some unfortunate's old mansion, and painted St. Valentine's pink and white. Davidson's was the only inn on this side of Chelmsford, and though the Christmas season had just ended, it was practically disserted. Holmes concluded that it was either not well liked or people just didn't visit Chelmsford for Christmas.

His moves were determined and precise as he attempted not to skid across the waxed floors in his wet rubbers. The snow was piecemeal but there was enough of it to form a deep brown sludge on the streets of Chelmsford. "May I send a message to Miss Emma Galveston?" he said in a commanding tone to the woman at the desk. She was heavyset, with a mud brown dress on; her eyes bulged, making her look like a lazy toad. This analogy in his head caused his anxious attempt to turn a chuckle into a cough.

"It can be arranged," slurred the woman with an accent more common farther north.

Shortly his intended companion flittered down the stairs, having trouble with the final and wettest step; she tripped and was headed headfirst into the wood floor when…

…he caught her with one fast arm. "I believe that is the second time I have saved your life, Miss Galveston," said Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes!" squeaked Emma, finding herself not contacting the floor. "They said you wanted to see me?"

"All in good time, Miss Galveston. But first, I must return your slipper," he said quite seriously as he fetched the dainty red shoe that had flown from her feet.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes," she said with a giggle of embarrassment, unable to stifle it. What was it this man that made her so unsure of her self? He wasn't handsome, like the fellows that flocked around her at parties. He wasn't merry, with a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes. He was a plain six and thirty London man with a tweed suit and cape and black rubbers. His face was drawn and narrow, and his nose was hawk-like. Certainly, in his own words, he was 'no white knight.'

She stood from this awkward and undoubtedly improper position, smoothed her rose coloured gown, and slipped back on the shoe that he stood holding like Cinderella's Prince Charming.

"You are welcome, Miss Galveston. You're out of mourning?" he said, raising an inquisitive dark eyebrow as he looked the pastel dress up and down. She shuttered a bit at his gaze, like he could see right through her.

"Mr. Holmes, I have spent more than half my life mourning for the dead. The living have to live sometime," she expressed darkly, her face clouded with past grievances.

"An interesting and somewhat appropriate philosophy for an orphan."

"You have been checking up on me?" she asked without a hint of surprise.

"It seems that you are much more involved in this incident I am investigating than I originally believed."

"Is that so? Then you must fill me in on my connection to your case. As I said yesterday morning, I am more than willing to help you if I can."

"Of course you recall the time you spent at Reuben Manor," he said, guiding her to a couch in the corner of the lobby where their conversation would not be intruded upon.

"Yes," said Emma, her face tensing up. He took a moment to judge it. Her yellow-green eyes were hardened, her nose scrunched up in discomfort. But the limp black curls had fallen quite becomingly around her narrow face in sort of a flyaway look. His grey eyes traced the pattern of the conch shell that pinned her hair. "Then I suppose your case has to do with either Roberta or Genevieve."

"You were friends with them? As a child?" he said, snapping back to business.

"A brief window of precious time, Mr. Holmes. I was twelve and residing across the wall at Rosalyn Home _for Unloved Children_," she said spitefully. "That is what we called it. As one of the eldest children there, Matron gave more freedom to me than the younger children because I was more responsible. Or she just didn't have time for me. It matters not- I knew my mother. I did not need some widow taking her place, anyway," she said bitterly. "I was born in India," she said abruptly, "but perhaps you knew that. No?

"Well then. My father was Adam Galveston, a struggling businessman from London who tried his hand in India. My mother was a young heiress with the money to start his business. A well made couple. Everyone said it was quite a shame that they were struck down by the fever when I was seven years old. Both dead on the same day…"

"Is India where you met Miss Robinson?"

"Good guess, but no. Her father was my father's most trusted servant. Elemi Rabin's children were raised like proper English girls upon my father's insisting. The eldest girl, Ellen, was by best friend in India. The fever took her too. I never met Kathryn until she took a boat to England; I left India before she was born. She was seven years younger than me, and that is perhaps why she and I never bonded like Ellen and I did when we were girls." Lost in her reflections, Emma stopped speaking.

"Miss Galveston," attempted Holmes at sympathy, "I know you have had a difficult life, but please, your friend's life may hang in the balance. I need to know everything you can remember about Jenny d'Emeraldé."

"I'm sorry Mr Holmes," the woman said shortly, rising to her feet. "But there isn't anything I could tell you that would help Genevieve more than hurt her. If she ran, it was for a good reason."

"You knew?"

She smoothed the crystal beadwork on the rose taffeta gown. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"Lise-" he tried.

"Lise is dead." And with that, the woman flounced back up the stairs.

Holmes stared into space for a moment, and then made up his mind about something that had been troubling him. "Perhaps I should pay a visit to Mr. Bailey after all…"

**Authoress' Note:**

**I would like to thank my first reviewer for their insight on my first chapter. True, Kathryn Robinson was a bit of a _You-Know-What_ but she was just a temporary character; a poor victim swept up in fate. Sorry that this chapter was on the short side, but this is all the plot that I could give you before the next (and very important chapter), _What Bailey Knew_. **

**As always, I would like to make credit at this time to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the author of the canon works. I do not own any of the canon characters found in this piece.**

**_The Oedipus Manuscripts_ is a story, written by GreyEyedDetective, for the purpose of fanfiction entertainment. Constructive criticism and positive reviewing is encouraged.**


	3. What Bailey Knew

**The Oedipus Manuscripts**

Chapter Three— What Bailey Knew

_January 29, 1890_

"17 Wiley Avenue, please," instructed the detective to the grimy looking hansom cabbie. The fellow was covered in dirt found particularly in the Lower London streets; he wore a navy cap and a muddy red scarf, and there was a single brow upon his brown, gritty face that twisted into a look of curiosity about Mr. Holmes' chosen location.

"Wiley?" repeated the man in a bit of disbelief, addressing Holmes and Dr. Watson in a term that may be described as "guvnas" though it is really hard to say just what he meant by this. "For gentlemen like yore selves?" he asked.

"Yes cabbie, we have business to attend there," said Holmes impatiently.

"Alrighty then, I s'pose that s'all right then," grinned the cabbie good naturedly, clicking his tongue softly to make the matted grey mare go.

"I say Holmes, the poor chap seems to have it in his mind that we shouldn't be going there at all," noticed Watson. He was accompanying his good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on his ongoing investigation of the disappearance of Miss Genevieve d'Emeraldé. But today Holmes seemed more interested in the case of the attempted poisoning of Miss Emma Galveston. Having been filled in on the details of this inquisition, Dr. Watson was coming with him not only to judge the character of their suspect but to assist Holmes should a dangerous situation arise.

"And he is absolutely right. Wiley Avenue is in no part of town that a good gentleman should ever venture into, even a doctor and his detective companion," responded Holmes. Watson noted that the younger man had a firm grip on the pistol in his inner coat pocket. Holmes too noted the apprehensive glance.

"Don't fret Watson, I'm sure that everything will go just as planned this afternoon," he said with a tinge of dry humour in his low voice.

"How dangerous is this place?" asked Watson before being seized with a fit of coughing. Holmes waited until this spell ended.

"The Wiley Broach? I frankly have no idea, Watson. Though if reputation truly proceeds, we are in for an interesting occurrence, to say the least."

"Are you sure that this Michael Bailey will be here, Holmes," asked the good doctor, unable to hide the hints of worry in his voice.

"I am most certain Watson. You see this?" Holmes drew from within the depths of his coat a neatly folded but dirty brown woollen scarf.

"Yes?"

"This piece belongs to our Mr. Bailey."

"How did you ever acquire it, Holmes?" exclaimed Dr. Watson.

"The slight-of-hand of one of my less scrupulous Irregulars," said Holmes briefly, returning the scarf to his pocket. "I was paying young Barty to follow Bailey, once I found that he was living on Wiley Avenue as well. The young fellow had the foresight to swipe Bailey's scarf from the table of the Wiley Broach, and I had the foresight of advertising my finding of it in the Times."

"Brilliant."

"I've done it before," noted Holmes with that familiar dryness. "I am surprised you don't recall."

"But of course! The Blue Carbuncle! Barely two months. You returned a hat and a rather special goose…"

"And I plan to follow the same with Mr. Bailey." At this moment the cabbie reined in the mare, and they were brought to a stop.

It was a seedy little pub right in the middle of Wiley Avenue; the sort of thing one pictures when one pictures a London pub. The windows were covered in yellow paper, so one could not see the inside, and the signpost waived a ragged Union Jack. The sign bore a peeling image of a green lady's dress pin; it was indeed the Wiley Broach.

"We're here," announced the cabbie, chipper despite the intense cold that numbed the two gentlemen down to their boots. His nose was cherry red from exposure, and his hands snatched up the fee with the same colour.

"So I see," said Watson with distain.

"Shall we enter?" offered Holmes, feeling the shock of the icy winter wind strike him as if his clothes were just paper, and knowing that Watson felt the same way.

"Let's," grunted Watson.

* * *

The public house was nearly deserted, save a young black boy sweeping nonchalantly a mouse's nest in the corner and a thin blonde man with his back to them at the bar. "Can I 'elp ye?" asked the man. 

Michael Bailey was not a tall man, under five ten by a quick visual measurement, but he wore high leather boots that made him look taller. His eyes were close set and deep, with gaunt blue eyes that seemed to strike Holmes to the core. He returned the piercing glare with his own grey eyes, and for a split moment they locked daggering glimpses.

"I said, can I 'elp ye?" repeated the man. Though these words seemed to show low class English, Holmes knew better. The man's voice was reedy but strong; he knew it to be actor's training that brought him to this pitch. Bailey had longish blonde hair tied back with a snippet of some ladylove's rose ribbon; his vest was of a darker shade of the same colour and his white sleeves were immensely wrinkled underneath.

"Yes, I believe you can. I advertised for the owner of a brown scarf, found outside this business on the 26th. Has he arrived?"

"'E 'as," responded the barkeep in a barely audible voice. "I lost my scarf on that same day."

"Then this must be yours," said Holmes with unlikely warmth. "What is your name, my good man?"

"Michael. Michael Bailey."

"Mr. Bailey then," smiled Holmes in a grimacing way that made it look pasted on. "An actor in previous training?" The man was sullen. "Don't worry, old chap, I'm one too. Or was one. Sherlock Holmes," he enunciated, sticking out his hand. "Oh, and this is Dr. John Watson, a colleague of mine."

Mr. Bailey showed signs of recognition. "The detective from Baker Street?" he said, with more annoyance than awe.

"That's the one!" Such a strange sight it was, to see Sherlock Holmes acting like the jolliest fellow in London. Bailey stared thoughtfully at him for a moment, as if deciding something.

"What's the real reason that yore 'ere?" growled the man. "I saw that lecherous urchin nick my scarf. 'E must be yore's."

"You speak the truth about a boy… he is my brother Mycroft's servant, the son of his footman. He's been soundly punished for it, Mr. Bailey, don't you worry about that." Dr. Watson nodded in honest collaboration; parts of these statements were true.

Barty, the grubby little fellow who was the most recent addition to the Irregulars, was the son of Mycroft Holmes' dead footman. Poor chap had never known his mother, and so without his father felt no obligation to sticking around the home of his father's master. It was short three weeks before the gangly Arab teen who led the gang of urchins presented proudly their newest member to their primary benefactor.

"And ye thought it would be the best for 'im of ye falsed me and kept 'im from the bobbies. Well, I can understand that. Mr. Holmes."

"Good," breathed Holmes, making the motion of heading towards the door.

"But that's not the only thing ye wanted to know about, is it, Mr. Holmes?" The flaxen haired gentleman gave a small grin of triumph when Holmes made a surprised halt. "Yore one of those lookin' for Emma."

Holmes turned around slowly, trying to smother the alarm that was slowly showing on his peaked face. "Do you mean Miss Galveston?" he said, drawing out his words as his mind searched for the logic behind Bailey's awkward knowledge.

"Yes, that's 'er. Yore with the redhead who came here on Sunday, aren't ye?"

Holmes recalled something deep inside his memory. "A redhead? One with shifty eyes and solid build?"

"Yes?"

"I do not know him." The blond looked confused. "But I have seen him before." Watson was utterly baffled, and gave a slight frown. Who was he talking about?

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked the boy with the broom. Watson gave a little start; he had forgotten that the child was even there.

"I am afraid I agree with the boy, Holmes. Who is this fellow?"

"I can answer that," supplied Bailey. "'E said 'is name was Victor 'Umphreys."

"Victor Humphreys?" repeated the detective. "Yes, yes, that would be right. What did Mr. Humphreys ask you?"

"'E wanted to know how long I 'ad known Emma, and when we first met, and all sorts of things. I thought 'e was a bobby so I told 'im what 'e wanted to know." The young man looked crestfallen as he recalled this.

"You would not mind supplying those same answers to me, now would you, Mr. Bailey? I am afraid that Victor Humphreys may be the man who has been trying to harm Miss Galveston."

"Someone's been trying to 'arm her? That redheaded fellow?" His deep-sunk blue eyes went round as the moon. "Sure, I will tell ye if it will help Emma."

Bailey, Holmes, and Watson all took seats in a musty little booth near the yellow-papered window. Bailey began his story in a wavering voice, all the courage sapped from him.

"I met Emma in late summer of '84. She was just twenty-one, and the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I was the son of the gardener at Reuben Manor, only seventeen, and nose-deep in the Shakespearian playbooks that Lady Roberta gave me. What a nice soul, that woman… It didn't take much, to convince 'er to love me back. She found it an amusing adventure… one that 'er acting friends would approve of and 'er old friend, Lady Genevieve, would disapprove of. They 'ad 'ad some sort of spat, and Emma did everything she could to break ties with the d'Emeraldé sisters."

Holmes cast a quick glance in the direction of Watson, who nodded in agreement. So the d'Emeraldés and Miss Galveston were not on the best of terms after all, thought Holmes. "Please continue, Mr Bailey…"

* * *

_February 3, 1890_

Holmes tightened his woollen scarf against his body as a fierce wind threatened to simply blow him away. It was a mild enough Monday morning for February, with tops of green-brown grass peaking through the melting sooty snow, but the weather threatened to turn harsh yet again, much to the detective's dismay.

He had promised to meet a woman by the name of Mrs. Hawthorne concerning a jewellery theft from her townhouse not three days past, but it looked as though the woman would not show after all. Eileen Wingover Hawthorne was the wife of the late Mr. Edward Hawthorne, a merchant in the fishing industry. Hawthorne and Son made a fairly decent profit, making the highly excitable lady an easy target for an aspirant thief.

Holmes, finding his patience worn to the breaking point, rose from the park bench and prepared to hail his usual mode of transport. It was at this moment that a full figured gentlewoman in a navy coat came rushing down the sidewalk, to collide with the man.

"Oh, oh dear me," squeaked the middle aged housewife as she discovered Mr. Sherlock Holmes laying rather humbling-like in the gutter.

"Mrs. Hawthorne, I assume," he grunted, rather peeved as he mourned his soaking wet lapels.

"Oh, yes, yes, I'm Eileen Hawthorne. You're Mr. Holmes? I expected someone…"

"Less wet?" said Holmes sarcastically. The woman blushed profusely. "My apologies, Mrs. Hawthorne, for standing in your pathway." With one final "harrumph" he straightened his coat and tried to ignore the blatant dark splash across his backside.

"Mrs. Hawthorne, you mentioned in your telegram that this is not the first time someone has taken one of your possessions? Something besides the pearl earrings you telegraphed about?"

"Yes, yes," squeaked the woman. Holmes studied her, as he often did to his clients and suspects alike: wide hipped, rather squat, but a thin, bony face that one did not often find on a woman of her proportions, as well as mousy brown hair with streaks of vibrant grey which placed her age somewhere in her middle fifties. "I had a mishap with one of my maids, Else, who took a sapphire hatpin from my jewellery box several months ago."

"And it was returned to you?"

"Yes, my butler, Armistead, caught her walking into a consignment shop with it when he was out purchasing shoe polish for Eddie."

"By 'Eddie' you mean your son?"

"Yes, Edward Junior is my only son."

"He worked with your husband, Edward Senior, in the fishing business, no?"

"That is correct."

"Of what age is your son?"

"Three and twenty years, Mr. Holmes," answered Mrs. Hawthorne pensively, as if wondering what her son's age had to do with the disappearance of herpearl earrings.

"Twenty-three then," murmured Holmes, filing this fact away. "Mrs. Hawthorne, have you thoroughly checked to see that you have not misplaced your earbobs?" he said. All during this discourse they had been walking at a leisurely pace towards 32 Grimond Street, the Hawthorne's redbrick townhouse. And at this point, they had reached the gate.

At Holmes' accusation of simply losing the 'earbobs,' Eileen Hawthorne's breathing sharply quickened. "Well, you are the detective, aren't you?" she said sardonically, her squinty hazel eyes radiating conceited, ignorant displeasure.

"Mrs. Hawthorne, do you wish my assistance or not?" he glared in reproach. "Because if I came all this way for naught then I wish to be informed of this." It was just that he had been kept waiting for over an hour, knocked into the gutter, and now… insulted?

"My apologies," muttered Mrs. Hawthorne, not meaning it, of course. Holmes sniffed. They were greeted by a robust but completely grey valet whom Holmes knew to be called "Armistead."

"Good morning, Missus Hawthorne. You have brought Mister Holmes to investigate the theft?" he said in a high, narrow voice of one who spent too much time indoors.

"That is correct, Armistead," said Mrs. Hawthorne rather timidly. "Tell Amanda to have tea ready in the morning room. I shall take Mr. Holmes up to my bedchamber." The butler nodded stiffly.

"He was your husband's servant," commented Holmes in his offhand way.

"How did you know?" she said, turning sideways on the narrow and rickety staircase to face him.

"You are scared of him," said Holmes dryly. "If he was your servant you would not be this way."

"Yes," admitted Mrs. Hawthorne. "When I was a young girl, barely seventeen, my family, the Wingovers, decided that we, meaning Edward and I, would be a suitable match. Just to say they had it, of course. I have lived my whole married life on Grimond Street, but this is not to say that I have ever been able to manage longest working servant."

"And that would be Armistead."

"Exactly, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hawthorne opened the last door in the hall and directed the consulting detective inside. It was a plain, small room with one window, fastened tight and framed by starch white curtains. The spread was a black and white Dutch pattern, supported by an iron bedpost. One thin dressing gown lay limp over the wicker chair, the only chair in the room. The bureau was maple and brass, standing as high as Holmes' shoulder and littered with empty cologne bottles and a large purple box.

"This is the box which held the earrings, Mrs. Hawthorne?"

"Correct, sir."

"It's a hatbox."

"It belonged to my grandmother, Mr. Holmes. It was beaver from America but manufactured in Paris."

"Le chapeau castor d'États Unis," read Holmes quietly to himself. "Yes, Mrs. Hawthorne, you are quite right. An insignificant detail to some, but it matters greatly to me."

"How so?"

"An ordinary thief does not go to the trouble of stealing a beaver hat from an upper-class home, Mrs. Hawthorne. Our thief must have known that you stored your precious items in such a container."

"You mean it was an 'inside job,' Mr. Holmes?"

"You've read too much of what Dr. Watson spews to the public, Mrs. Hawthorne," said Holmes with a smile. "I've never used such terminology myself." The buxom woman frowned and wrinkled her forehead.

"Well, was it?" she said impatiently.

"In a manner of speaking. I--" Holmes was suddenly cut off by the playful shrieks of a young girl.

"Auntie Eileen! Auntie Eileen!" shouted the child as she scampered up the stairs in a series of thuds.

"Yes, child. In my bedchamber!" returned Mrs. Hawthorne with a big smile. The girl, Mrs. Hawthorne's niece, was a strawberry blonde, eleven year old with a peppery smile and a blue sailor's dress.

"Mr. Holmes, my brother's child, Rosie Wingover," introduced Mrs. Hawthorne quickly.

"Pleased to meet you, Rosie," said Holmes with a smirk. She reminded him of a young tomboy that he had grown up with in Montpellier.

"Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Holmes," said Rose with a stiff curtsy.

"Rosie, why don't you go find Mrs. Drew and see if you can help with the gingersnaps she's baking," encouraged Mrs. Hawthorne. The girl took the suggestion and exited the room without questioning her.

"What a lovely niece you have, ma'am."

"Thank you Mr. Holmes. Rose has always been my favourite of Freddy's children. Seven boys, would you believe? She has always been quite pleasure to have with me, unlike those rough older ones."

"And a great admirer of you?"

"Much so, I would like to think," responded Mrs. Hawthorne warmly.

"Does Miss Rose like the outdoors much. Mrs. Hawthorne?"

"Yes, all Wingover children do, Mr. Holmes," she said proudly.

"Was she here… the day the jewellery was detected as missing?"

"No, but she was here the day before," answered Mrs. Hawthorne cautiously.

Holmes took an idle look out the window, found the pane to lift quite lightly and smoothly, and then marched outside with a confused and very much toddling Eileen Hawthorne trailing behind.

Ignoring the snow, Holmes tramped through the yard until he was directly under the bedroom window. He looked up, looked down, and stuck his hand straight into the melting snow with a shiver and retrieved something.

"Mrs. Hawthorne, your missing pearls," he said with a satisfied smile.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, how on earth did you ever find them?" gasped Mrs. Hawthorne, her face changing to a colour near violet.

"Elementary, ma'am," he began, suddenly wishing for the companionship of Dr. Watson. Watson was unfortunately far up north in Lincolnshire, attending to the estate of a deceased cousin, and would no doubt be delayed by the heavy snow for the rest of the week. "I knew at once they had not been stolen by an outside miscreant; it was unlikely that they would enter through the window without waking you, as your bed is quite near enough to be chilled by a breeze, and that they would only take one pair of earrings from a large purple hatbox, which is not at all suited for storing such things.

"Therefore, there had to be someone within the household with a desire for such objects. The likely maid previously eliminated, I had no suspects until the delightful Miss Rosie entered the scene. Did you notice the crestfallen look on her face once you introduced me by name? And that she did not protest to leave the company of her favourite aunt? I judged correctly that young Rosie had taken your earbobs.

"But where had she taken them? She did not seem poor off, for despite the number of children in her family I judged that both her father and you had grown up rich."

"How so, Mr. Holmes?" questioned Mrs. Hawthorne, white lipped, as they returned inside.

"Your mannerisms, for one thing, and your well educated accent. You were taught by a private tutor, not French for you don't speak a word of it, but nonetheless taught well."

"This is true."

"So Rosie had taken the earrings, probably just to look at them because she certainly didn't intend to steal them. It was warm on the day in question, unusually warm for the weather we've had lately, and in her game of pretend she opened the window, which opened quite easily for her. At this point in time you began to climb the stairs and in a panic she slammed the window down on her own fingers," he lifted the window to show a small drop of blood, "and dropped your pearls into the snow below."

"Amazing!"

"Not really. A simple case, but rather satisfying. My fee, ma'am?"

"Of course," she said, flustered, and drew her cheque book from the pocket of her matronly apron.

* * *

**Authoress' Note:**

**My apologies for the delay on this chapter, but as you can see it is a bit longer than the previous ones. Holmes gets a bit sidetracked in this chapter, but he does make some progress towards the murderer. I'd like to thank those who have reviewed thus far for assisting me in making this story better.**

**Next Chapter: _The Servant_**

**GreyEyedDetective**


	4. The Servant

**The Oedipus Manuscripts**

**Chapter Four—The Servant**

_February 8, 1890_

Holmes fidgeted nervously and straightened his stringy brown tie as though it were strangling him. "Do calm yourself, Holmes," pleaded Watson. "She is only a client," the good doctor pointed out.

"So true, Watson," admitted Holmes, dropping his hand quickly into his lap, "She's only a client." He mouthed this last several times, as if trying to assure himself of the integrity of this line. Suddenly he peered up in the looking glass, to face his bemused colleague. "What?" he said with false offence.

"This latest character of yours, Holmes, or shall I say… Dr. Marvin Brown?" Watson's grin broadened, extending past his neatly trimmed moustache, "The bumbling young doctor from Essex who would marry Miss Galveston?"

Holmes dropped the nervous act and calmly finished his costume, which consisted of his usual brown tweed suit and tie, as well as two toned shoes. His hair was combed over in a ridiculous parted manner and one of Watson's well known bowlers rested on the hall-table, to perch askew on Holmes' slicked down hair. With a bit of brown grease pencil, he had thickened his eyebrows, and with a rouge pencil he gave his sallow face a ruddy complexion. It was not his best work, but his lead was fresh and temporary and he had to seize it right away.

"Good, eh? I am basing my performance on you, when I first met you. You had come to visit me in the chemistry lab of the university…"

"'A Study in Scarlet?'" recalled Watson, who had related that tale in the book of the same name. "Surely I am not as blundering as our young friend Dr. Brown?"

"Of course not," soothed Holmes, which was rather unlike him. "You were skittish, that's all. Not surprising for a man who had just gone through trauma in India. Dr. Brown will do very well to be less observant than Sherlock Holmes, who seems to scare away lowlifes. Take Michael Bailey, who could barely spit out his words once I made my identity known." Holmes picked up the bowler and a salt-and-pepper greatcoat. "The package, Watson?"

"Oh, yes, Holmes," fumbled Watson, searching for a small and rather greasy brown package. "Here it is," he said at last, producing it.

"Exactly as ordered?"

"Exactly as ordered. Now, be gone young rip; you shalln't be late for the meeting with your fiancée, Marvin." Holmes adopted a tentative slouch as he hurried out into the shockingly cold winter air.

"Good luck, Holmes… you'll need it today," breathed Watson as the waiting cab rolled away.

* * *

" '_The Taffeta Goose Theatre is an ordinary theatre with an extraordinary name. Founded in late Elizabethan times, two years before the death of William Shakespeare, it was commissioned by Earl Albert Norfolk of London in 1614 and named by his young daughter Molly after her stuffed toy goose, which was made out of yellow taffeta. Following Earl Norfolk's death in 1625, it was taken over by his nephew and later a fast succession of minor nobles who felt it was a family duty to keep the theatre functioning as a tribute to the patriarch of the Norfolk family crest. However, it is now owned by the granddaughter of the last Norfolk (Sir Adam Norfolk), Mrs. Abigail Tracy.' "_ Holmes read this article with amusement, and then shut the withered pages of the much recycled program, left on the curb outside the named place. It bore the declaration "Richard V".

The theatre group that performed its plays in the Goose Theatre was called the Unlucky Journeymen, which was a name that rang true- the patrons of this theatre were few and far between as of late, but this latest performance was sure to draw in a modest crowd into the yellow brick building. On a script of Parchment on the door of the much neglected building scrawled:

_King Lear_

_February 15, 16, 22, 23_

_March 1, 2, 8, 9_

Holmes made note of the dates of the performance in his mind, being a patron of Shakespeare himself, and tried the brass handle of the weathered door. It opened grudgingly for the detective, and a strange stench of blood, sweat, and must overpowered his senses. Keeping a straight face as he must, his entrance caught the eye of a man staring intently at a thick stack of papers Holmes assumed was a script.

"May I help you?" asked the man with a grunt, rising from a wooden chair which looked like it belonged to a dining set.

Holmes cleared his throat. "Hello, old chap, I'm looking for Miss Emma Galveston, if you please."

"Who's calling for her?" said the man warily, unsure if he liked the looks of this well dressed stranger, so different from the usual patrons of Goose Theatre on Pine Street.

"Well, I am Dr. Marvin Brown, sir. And who might you be?" said Holmes as innocently as he possibly could, even widening his grey eyes to maximise this seeming simplicity.

"James Ferguson," said Mr. Ferguson bluntly. "Why do you need to see Miss Emma? They're rehearsing, you know."

Holmes grinned good naturedly at this falsehood. The theatre was practically silent. "I am Emma's fiancé, Mr. Ferguson."

Ferguson returned the grin. "Oh, so she has a fiancé, does she?"

Holmes frowned. "No, Mr. Ferguson, it's not like that… we're really and truly engaged."

Ferguson's face became stoic. "Well then, come with me, Dr. Brown."

* * *

The stench and dust of the antechamber of the Taffeta Goose was only a slim glimpse into the rather ghastly backstage hallways of the ancient theatre. Reminiscent of catacombs, thought Holmes passively.

After about four minutes, Ferguson rapped on a well worn narrow door which had clearly been built in a time when men were generally shorter then they were now. Ferguson, who stood a good six foot two, stooped ill temperedly to enter the chamber when a voice from within permitted him doing so.

"Miss Emma? Your fiancé is here to see you." Miss Galveston's face clouded with confusion. "You know, Dr. Marvin Brown," insisted James with a wicked smile. Holmes followed a safe distance into the cramped room, ducking himself at the doorway.

Miss Galveston's face increased confusion in his arrival. "Mr. H-" The look on his face warned her to stop, and she instinctively trusted it.

"My dear Emma, I have a gift for you," said Holmes swiftly, drawing the greasy little package from his greatcoat pocket and handing it to her gently. Still entirely baffled, Miss Galveston complied and tore off the twine and paper. Within was a small leather box. She opened it with a gasp of genuine surprise- it was a single yellow diamond on an ornate antique gold band. "The engraving, dearest," urged Holmes.

Emma turned the ring to read the inside. It was in eloquent script: _Joues-tu depuis longtemps._ Play along!

Suddenly Miss Galveston was all charm. "Oh… Marvin, it's beautiful!" she said with actor's tears.

Holmes smiled. "I'm so glad you like it, Emma." He leaned closer to her, and she kissed him quickly but benevolently.

Ferguson backed out awkwardly with a, "I'll leave you alone with your fiancé, Miss Emma." The door closed, and Emma Galveston whirled on Holmes.

"_Mr_. Holmes, what is the meaning of all this!" she shrieked, letting her swift temper get the best of her.

"Please, Miss Galveston, the walls have ears," said Holmes coolly. "Sharper than a serpent's tooth," he murmured to himself, quoting _King Lear_.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, I forgot myself. But perhaps you have forgotten yourself as well, _Dr. Brown_. What kind of plan could possibly involve posing as my husband-to-be?"

"One that would get me in to see you as fast as I could, Miss Galveston. Your life may be again in danger."

She arched a narrow black eyebrow. "What do you mean?" she whispered, with her voice wavering slightly.

It was uncharacteristic of him. This he knew. But suddenly he felt a strong pity for the young woman, and the only thing he wanted to do at that moment was to calm her. A hysterical woman will do me no good, he told himself. "Who are you playing?" he asked abruptly.

"Regan," responded the woman quietly.

Curious, thought Holmes, the wicked sister who was poisoned to death. He said, "Who plays the other characters?"

"Mrs. Abigail Faust, the daughter of the woman who owns our theatre, plays Goneril, and her husband Xander Faust plays King Lear. My dear friend Miss Juliet Mason plays Cordelia, and her brother Max Mason plays Kent. Ferguson plays Gloucester, and his cousins Thomas and David play Edgar and Edmund. And Victor Humphreys plays my husband." All this she answered with a good measure of suspicion and confusion.

Humphreys, thought Holmes. The red headed gentleman who had given Kathryn Robinson and Emma Galveston their drinks the night both were poisoned. The red headed gentleman who had come inquiring about Emma at the pub. "What do you know about Victor Humphreys?" he said severely.

Emma brightened. "Oh, Victor and I have been friends since childhood."

Holmes was taken aback. "You have?"

"Oh, yes. Victor was the son of an attorney in Chelmsford; he spent a good amount of time at the manor when Lord d'Emeraldé was settling the estate of his uncle. Victor, Lise, Jenny, and I used to spend a great deal of time together until Mr. Humphreys took a position in a firm in London."

"Will you forgive me?" asked Holmes stiffly. "There is something that I must do," he said with a hint of desperation.

* * *

"Holmes?" said Lestrade with confusion, "Working on some sort of case?" He had been summoned without warning to the office of the _Times_ by the detective.

Holmes was busy rifling through a stack of yellowed newspapers from '88. "Archives, Lestrade. Possibly the most useful things this city can offer the inquiring mind. In the future, you will take my advice to heart and use the archives when looking for past crimes. You will find that they often give a more thorough description of criminal activities then the records at the Yard."

Lestrade snorted impatiently, feeling as though Holmes, the civilian, thought he could teach Lestrade, the officer of the law, a thing or two about criminal activity. A brilliant mind, but an amateur and a civilian none the less. "What are you looking for?"

"Something on the firm Brubaker and Humphrey, which went under in 1888 with the death of Clarence Brubaker."

"Why?"

"Confound it, Lestrade, stop asking why and help me- There!" shouted Holmes excitedly, finding the very thing he was looking for in the Sunday issue of October 21, 1888.

" '_The law firm of attorneys Clarence Brubaker and Victor Humphreys, Sr. closed its doors today after many years of public service to London. This was brought on by both the death of Clarence Brubaker four days ago and the scandal which has stricken Humphreys since the incarceration of his son, Victor Humphreys, Jr. for forgery, embezzlement within a client's company, and the attempted murder of said client. Humphreys Junior has been cleared of the latter charge due to lack of evidence and the mental state of the client, but will be still sentenced for forgery and embezzlement.' _" After reading this article out loud disgustedly, Holmes sallow face turned from yellow to white.

"I should have known- Miss Galveston is in grave danger!"

_**Next Chapter: The Truth of King Lear**_


End file.
